


Hell Hath No Fury

by Femmetac



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demons, Devil's Trap, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Femmetac/pseuds/Femmetac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Mills summons Crowley to exact revenge, but...<i>feelings</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell Hath No Fury

"Well, well, well, look who we caught here," Jodi Mills swaggered to the edge of the devil's trap to smile cruelly at the demon she had trapped there.

"Ahhh…Sheriff Mills, yes? Lovely to see you as always. And you've not only summoned me, but trapped me here because…?" Crowley asked menacingly.

"Because I owe you one, you swine!" she answered, just a half step from the circle in her living room floor.

Crowley mentally ticked through the catalog of contracts he had open. "Noo…I think not, darling, but if you'd like to make a deal—"

Smack! He shook his head to clear the ringing from her first blow, even as she pummeled him with a second.

"How DARE you!" she cried, her fists driving into anywhere she could land them. She and Crowley collided, landing solidly inside the circle as he shielded his face with his hands.

"Gerrroff you harpy!" he replied, struggling with what was apparently an emotionally unstable woman. "Come now, can we be civilized about this?" Crowley itched to knock her straight into a wall with his powers, but doubted that it would get him out of the devil's trap, especially alive.

A sudden wetness on his chest made him realize that not only was she trying her damndest to inflict damage to his person, but she was also crying in the process. What female madness is this, he thought, before her words registered in his shifty brain. Things like "drudged up their memories," "toyed and flirted with me" finally struck a chord and he concluded that she was trying to get even with him for nearly killing her. He hated the use the omelets and eggs metaphor again, but well…he had had a purpose for using her. Apparently that came with a price, namely one emotionally wounded woman with a vendetta.

Crowley stopped struggling and grabbed her arms, holding her while she sobbed, cursed and threatened. It took a moment for him to realize that he was rocking her, making shushing noises and apologizing. _"Sorry?" Did I just-?_ He wondered shamefully. And now he was apologizing to a bloody human! _Feelings!_ He thought ruefully, and not for the first time. But her choking sobs had quieted, so he continued on, rubbing her back and whispering apologies in her ear.

After a few minutes, she had stopped entirely and her breathing evened out. Crowley craned his face around to hers and realized that she had completely worn herself out and fallen asleep. From the telltale smell of whiskey, he reasoned that she had 'drunk summoned' him looking for a fight. He also realized that the heavy feel of his magic being tamped down had gone. He rolled over, taking the passed out woman with him, and left her lying on the hardwood floor while he looked around. Their struggling had destroyed the paint job on her devil's trap, leaving him free to roam about the house. With a snap, he transported Jodi's sleeping form to a sofa nearby and tucked a throw around her.

He spent the next few minutes nosing around, looking at pictures of her dead husband and son, still sitting framed around the living room. He felt a tug of…conscience?...knowing that he had used her pain to get at the Winchesters. On her desk was a glass of whiskey, which he sniffed at before putting it back down with a disapproving frown. In place of the Jack Daniels she had nearly emptied, he left a bottle of single malt Glencraig. He stepped over to her, touched two fingers to her forehead and sifted through the memories of their "date" night. When he got to her memory of nearly choking to death in the women's restroom, he stopped with a sigh. Blast these human emotions, he thought grimly. He did not take the memories away—not then. Instead, he implanted a memory of himself speaking Latin over the hex bag at the table and the knowledge of how to counteract the charm. Next time, he reasoned, if anyone did this to her, she would be ready.

Standing up again, he took another cursory look around the room and disappeared.


End file.
